York.
Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-pluck'd Richard; who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields
To the possession of thy royal hand:
Ascend his throne, descending now from him,—
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

Bol.
In Heaven's name, I'll ascend the regal throne. [Bolingbroke is led to the Throne by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, amidst the applause of the Spectators.^{10 note}

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
He may surrender; so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.

York.
I will be his conduct.^{11 note} [Exit. Re-enter York, with King Richard,^{12 note} guarded, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

K. Rich
Alack, why am I sent for to a king,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee:—
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me
To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men:^{13 note} Were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry “all hail” to me?
To do what service am I sent for thither?

York.
To do that office, of thine own good will,
Which tired majesty did make thee offer,—
The resignation of thy state and crown
To Henry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
Give me the crown:—Here, cousin, seize the crown;(A)8Q0152
Here, on this side, my hand; on that side, thine.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owns two buckets filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen, and full of water:
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Bol.
I thought you had been willing to resign.

K. Rich.
My crown, I am; but still my griefs are mine;
You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

Bol.
Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

K. Rich.
Your cares set up, do not pluck my cares down.

The cares I give, I have, though given away;
They tend^{14 note} the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Bol.
Are you contented to resign the crown?

K. Rich.
Ay, no;—no, ay;—for I must nothing be;
Therefore, no, no; for I resign to thee.
Now, mark me how I will undo myself:—
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldly sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,^{15 note}
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state;
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear:
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego:
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny;
Heav'n pardon all oaths, that are broke to me!
Heav'n keep all vows unbroke, are made to thee!
God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!
What more remains?

North.
No more, but that you read [Offering a paper.
These accusations, and these grievous crimes,
Committed by your person, and your followers,
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.^{16 note}

K. Rich.
Must I do so? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,^{17 note}
There shouldst thou find one heinous article,—
Containing the deposing of a king,

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,—
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven.

North.
My lord, despatch; read o'er these articles.

K. Rich.
Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see;
And yet salt water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a sort^{18 note} of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest;
For I have given here my soul's consent,
To undeck the pompous body of a king;
Make glory base; and sovereignty a slave;
Proud majesty, a subject; state, a peasant.

North.
My lord,—

K. Rich.
No lord of thine, thou haught,^{19 note} insulting man,
Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,—
No, not that name was given me at the font,—
But 'tis usurped;—Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself.
O, that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops!—
Good king,—great king,—(and yet not greatly good),
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight;
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Bol.
Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit an Attendant.

North.
Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come.

K. Rich.
Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell.

Bol.
Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North.
The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's—myself.

Re-enter Attendant, with a Glass.
Give me that glass, and therein will I read.—
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds?—O, flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face, that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face; [Dashes the Glass against the ground.
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.—
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,—
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Bol.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.
Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see:—
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more,
Shall I obtain it?

Bol.
Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin? Why, I am greater than a king!
For, when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Bol.
Yet ask.

K. Rich.
And shall I have?

Bol.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Then give me leave to go.

Bol.
Whither?

K. Rich.
Whither you will, so I were from your sight.

Bol.
Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich.
O, good! Convey?—Conveyers are you all,^{20 note}
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall. [Exeunt King Richard, some Lords, and a Guard.

Bol.
On Wednesday next, we solemnly set down
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. [Flourish of Trumpets. END OF ACT FOURTH.

Previous section